


U. S. 1

by Christopher J Burke (Cjburke)



Series: Driving Tigers / Road Wolves [1]
Category: Cars Wars (Steve Jackson Games Video Game)
Genre: Car Wars, Driving Tigers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 1997-07-15
Updated: 1997-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cjburke/pseuds/Christopher%20J%20Burke
Summary: The Driving Tigers leave NYC for Baltimore at the behest of Sean's Uncle Jack. The CEO of WIldcat Auto Works, Victor Cose, is in critical condition, in need of treatment, or possible clone activation. The problem? The treatment center is in Key West and the ambulance will be avoiding the interstate and taking U.S. 1.
Series: Driving Tigers / Road Wolves [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101590





	1. Part 1: The Mission

##  U.S. 1 

  
An early adventure of the Driving Tigers/Road Wolves

by Christopher J. Burke  
Copyright (c) 1984, 1997 

Uncle Jack paced back and forth across the conference room. His eyes scanned the walls, the floor and the ceiling as if he were looking for something other than a place to begin. 

The door opened and his secretary, Jessica Ryder, entered followed by a cafeteria worker with refreshments. She directed him where to place the tray and handed Jack his mug, sporting the Wildcat Auto Works logo, and teeming with fresh-brewed java. Before Jack could get out a "Thanks, Jes" the pair had gone and the door closed. 

Lucky nearly burned his fingers pouring out four flaming-hot cups, but that didn't stop Uncle Jack from downing half a mug in his first gulp. That got him talking. 

"Alright," he started. "Let me get to business. Your business with me, and then back to my business here. 

"First, I want to thank you for your quick response. I want to commend you for making the trip from New York to Baltimore on such short notice. I'm impressed that you *could* make the trip so fast. That tells me that you are suited for the job I have for you. 

"WAW has had a crisis on our hands for the last two months. The usual industrial stuff, I won't trouble you with the details -- they're not important. This morning, it went beyond all that. This morning, it got personal. 

"WAW president, Victor Cose, and I took in an early meeting in the conference room down the hall regarding the sabotage to formulate an appropriate response. A couple of minutes before nine, Jes buzzed in to say that the kid Vic fired last week was at the reception desk. Don't get the wrong impression; he was there because I'd called him. 

"These raids have frustrated Vic tremendously. He took it out on this kid, sending him packing after he lost a package. He had blown a tire on Vic's personal duelling machine to boot. When Vic cooled down, I convinced him to meet with the kid about taking him back. 

"I escorted him to the conference room and as we approached, I heard the clock chime nine times. Then the room exploded, throwing me and the kid against the wall." 

Turbo raised an eyebrow and looked to Lucky, who looked to Tinker, who looked to me. Slowly, the four of us turned our heads toward the corner of the room. There stood an old grandfather clock, pendulum swing left to right and back again. The hands read five before six. 

"BOOM!" 

We all jumped up. Out of the chairs, over the table, under the table, curling up fetal . . . 

When we heard Uncle Jack's low chuckling, we realized that the room hadn't exploded and taken us with it. 

"Thanks for the laugh, boys. It's the first one I've had all day. Naturally, we swept the building immediately for other devices. Particularly the clocks." 

We picked ourselves up and took our seats again. Jack told us that Victor Cose was currently in critical condition. He was at a nearby hospital but needed special treatment. Unfortunately, that treatment required a small trip. 

To Key West. Florida. 

There are great perks to being a CEO. Your annual physical is an excuse to take a relaxing vacation on the beach. Your clone needs a memory update? Plan a four-day weekend to take care of it. 

Ain't corporate life grand? 

"We can't fly Victor down there for a couple of reasons, the most important being an inner ear imbalance that could kill him if he travels at an elevation safe enough." 

Uncle Jack called up a map of the Atlantic Coast on the computer screen. "Gentlemen, you will be going escort Victor Cose's ambulance to Key West. More specifically, to the First Key West Hospital, an armored fortress built in the old naval base. He'll be fine once he gets there, but first he has to get there. I'm told that he needs to be there within the next 48 hours if we're going to save him." 

When Jack had called this morning, he had told me that he needed some guys to make a run for him. He hadn't said where to, how far, what the mission was, or what the cargo would be. But he did tell me my godfather had been involved in an incident. By now, I had guessed what the mission would be but never dreamed of the scope. I stared at a map outlining a journey of over 1300 miles. And time was definitely of the essence. 

Tinker emitted a low growl, his eyes fixated at the map. It suddenly hit me what he was complaining about. After Raliegh, N.C., the path veered in an unexpected direction for several hundred miles. "Uncle Jack, is that the proposed route you want us to take?" 

He hit a key on the PC and the highway starting flashing. "Yes, Sean, it is." 

The four of us at the table looked at each other. Turbo spoke up first. "You want us to take U.S. 1? Pardon me for asking, but I thought you wanted Mr. Cose to get there alive." 

Jack smiled. "I'm sure you'll do your best. If you don't, I'll personally see to your dissections. That goes for you, too, Sean. I obviously can't play favorites." 

I responded by pouring another cup of coffee. I knew that Uncle Jack always had a reason for everything, so I let the other guys hash this one out. Lucky came right to the point. 

"As bad as the interstates are, at least they're patrolled and in some semblance of good repair. No one travels the old federal roads except bandits looking for stupid people." 

Turbo spied me relaxing and took that cue to sit back down and hear the rest of the story. He poured another cup for himself leaving only enough for one more cup in the pot. Tinker's gaze moved from Lucky to the pot and back again. Lucky realized what was transpiring too late. He lunged for the pot, but Tinker had already snatched it away. 

"Ahem." Jack cleared his throat. "If I may interrupt your little drama here." He hit a button on the intercom; Jes responded. "Could you have another pot sent in here? Thank you." 

He fingered another key, and I-95 lit up in green all the way from Baltimore to old Miami. "There will be a team taking the interstate. However, it won't be you. If someone wanted Wildcat Auto Work to grind to a halt for a few days, they've pretty much got it. But if for some reason, someone wants Victor Cose dead, well, I'm damn sure that they're _not_ going to get that. 

"Victor's love of Key West is a known fact, so they'll be expecting this. They'll be patrolling the interstates. For that reason, a decoy group will travel that road and only a few key people in this company will know about it. We're planning on smoking them out." 

Jack opened his briefcase. He pulled out four data cubes and passed them around. "All the information you'll need is there. Detailed maps. Where to get supplies to patch and refuel your cars. Every obscure fact we could dig up about the territory you're driving through is there. Any questions." 

Turbo raised a hand; actually, it was more of a two-fingered salute. "Just one question. You said that there were a couple of reasons Cose couldn't fly, the main one being his ears. What's the other one?" 

Jack hit another key and a weather channel appeared on the screen with a display of the U.S. covered by several patches of white, swirling clouds. A darker system in the lower right corner of the screen caught our attention. 

"Thanks for reminding me," Jack said. "Tropical Storm Diane is aiming for the Florida coastline. She may be upgraded to hurricane by landfall." 

Ask a silly question . . .


	2. Part 2: The Drive Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Driving Tigers leave NYC for Baltimore at the behest of Sean's Uncle Jack to escort an ambulance, containing a critical CEO of Wildcat Auto Works, down U.S. 1 all the way to Key West. The road for this two-day trip is not the safest one to travel. And there's a hurricane brewing off the Florida Coast.
> 
> In this installment, the Driving Tigers shift into Road Wolves mode and start rolling. But they won't even make it to the city limits before their first encounter with inevitable road hazards.
> 
> (The story was originally written as a gaming adventure scenario, and as such, is sprinkled -- littered, even -- with road encounters.)

By dawn, everything was in place. Victor Cose was placed inside an unmarked, ambunaught, which had been refitted with a Vulcan in the turret and a set of radial tires and an active suspension system. Our vehicles were fully loaded and ready for the trip. 

Uncle Jack took me aside. "Sean, I'm glad you came. Vic always thought highly about you, and he'd be proud to know that you're on the team." 

I smiled. "After all the free parts and experimental equipment I get to 'evaluate', it's the least I can do." 

Turbo honked his horn. 

We shook hands. I donned my helmet and jumped behind the wheel. Jack looked over our cars, eyeing the Wolf decals in particular. "One minute, guys. I have to ask. What's with the Wolves? I thought you went by 'Driving Tigers'?" 

"Away from home, we're the Road Wolves. We don't like letting the boys from Bensonhurst know that several team members are out of town. They look for any opportunity." 

Lucky stuck his head out. "So we use the name of a former gang that decided to merge with the Driving Tigers. It was a mutual agreement, though superior fire power played a distinct role." 

As Uncle Jack laughed, Turbo honked his horn again, and his voice came over the radio. "Let's do it." 

Slowly, the garage fell back behind us, and Baltimore unfolded before us. With a few deep breaths and a few deep prayers, we were on our way. Turbo summed up the way we were all feeling at the moment. 

"Everything's A-OK now, guys. Just remember, everything can only _go south_ from here." 

So there we were, driving along the streets of Baltimore, heading south on US 1, escorting an unmarked ambulance down to Key West. Now, I know what your thinking: who in their right mind would take an ambulance onto Route 1 for a thousand-mile journey unless they were just not planning ahead. Well, it's a long-story, but I'll sum it up for you. 

Yesterday, a bomb went off in the Baltimore office of Wildcat Auto Works, critically injuring president Victor Cose. One of the senior VPs, Jack O'Hara, who is also my uncle, gave me a call. Within hours four members of the Road Wolves arrived in his office: Aramis (that's my road name), certified ace; Lucky, certified ace, uncertified double ace; Turbo, certified double ace; and Tinker, just certifiable, if you know what I mean. 

Our mission, and we chose to accept it, was to quietly escort Mr. Cose to Key West for treatment via US 1 while a decoy team traveled I-95. Crazy, sure. But that doesn't mean it can't be done. And we were so damned determined to get it done that not even a hurricane could stop us. Which is a good thing . . . because there might be one hitting the Florida Keys about the same time that we will. 

At the moment, traffic was light, but it was still early. Baltimore kept their roads in good repair. Patrol cars occasionally let their presence be known. Turbo, in his ramcar "Bumper," took the point. Lucky followed in his clunker. After that, the van, then me and my station wagon. Don't laugh; it was my father's. Tinker covered the rear. 

Two paramedics manned the van. Jones, the driver, had some prior autoduelling experience. The other guy, Carmichael, professed to knowing only how to use personal weaponry on a more defensive level. Victor Cose rested on a stretcher in the back of the van, hooked up to monitors. 

We spaced ourselves apart so as not to attract attention. The last thing we needed was to be ID'ed before we even left the city limits. We still had two long days ahead of us. 

Our convoy had only traveled a few miles when a small compact came into view behind us. He honked at Tinker to let him pass. A quick look showed it to be an old lightweight Civic with nothing more than an MG strapped onto the front hood. One of the old Japanese beer cans. There aren't too many of them on the road nowadays given their tendency to squash like bugs on contact. There was no apparent reason why this guy was on the highway let alone honking at Tinker. 

Cautiously, we allowed him to pass on our left, each of us keeping an eye on him. When he had passed, we saw the retrofitted spikedropper hanging down from the bumper. "Jury-rigged" would be a better word. As a courier between arena duels, I'm used to lightly-armed vehicles that use speed as their best defense, but not even triple hazard pay could get me behind the wheel of that thing. 

"Does anyone else have the strange feeling about that guy that I have?" I asked. 

"Keep an eye out," Lucky replied. "We're going to find a wreck in a little while. Someone is going to pick that runt off. I just hope the jerk doesn't come running to us for protection." 

Lucky spoke prematurely. As we turned the next bend, the tan compact had spun around up in the distance. He was heading back our way. 

"Gladys, oh, Gladys --" the radio sobbed. "I can't live without you..." 

Turbo tapped his brakes. "We've got our first problem. Lucky, take point for a while." No reason for Turbo to test out his ramplate just yet. 

Lucky swung around to get a clean shot but hesitated. "Do you want me to fire on the poor sap? He's gone wacko over a woman." 

I grinned. "Your brother in spirit, Luck?" 

A blast from the Civic's MG cut off Lucky's retort, not to mention a chunk of his front armor. 

"Then again . . . " The return burst of ammo disintegrated most of the distraught lover's front grill. The gaping hole exposed the engine. 

"Thank you," he said. "Finally, someone understands." 

"No," Lucky replied. "I don't understand. Care to slow down and explain it?" 

Less than 100 yards apart and closing fast, the wacko swerved toward Lucky at full speed. He wanted a head-on collision to end his troubles. 

No one wanted to knock off the guy, but he was about to get us killed. Lucky dueled with a Gentlemen's Code of Honor that usually prevented taking tire shots except in extreme circumstances. They rarely got less gentlemanly nor more extreme than now. 

Lucky let out a yell as he swerved. He blasted the compact's left front tire. The Civic flipped and rolled. 

The convoy avoided the wreck, unsure if its driver had survived. 

No one said anything. We had been worried about industrial spies, terrorists and major crime syndicates, and we almost bought it because of a jilted romantic. Funny thing is we all felt for the poor sap -- it happens all the time. Personally, I thought Gladys should have given him another chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original story was written in 1984 as a novella and adventure scenario for Car Wars. The story went from NYC to Miami, but then the Miami atlas entry appeared in ADQ, so it was switched to Baltimore to Key West. Scott Haring was impressed by the amount of work but they passed on both, which in retrospect wasn't really surprising.
> 
> The story sat in a drawer until a year after the publication of GURPS Autoduel, 2nd edition. At that point, the original opening, with the explosion that injured Victor Cose, was thrown out, the ending was changed and a good chunk of the middle was rewritten. It was then serialized in HVD: the High-Velocity Duelling Car Wars Mailing List in 1997
> 
> I like the story, but it's still a bit cringe-worthy, reading the remaining 1980s-text, which I chose to preserve, rather than go through another rewrite. For some reason, at the time, I didn't use a lot of contractions, probably because I thought I was adding emphasis.
> 
> Also, if I missed an "Oddball", that's referring to Tinker. The character's name was changed years later, but the original name was used in HVD.


	3. Part 3: Why Did It Have to Be Snakes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Driving Tigers leave NYC for Baltimore at the behest of Sean's Uncle Jack to escort an ambulance, containing a critical CEO of Wildcat Auto Works, down U.S. 1 all the way to Key West. The road for this two-day trip is not the safest one to travel. And there's a hurricane brewing off the Florida Coast.
> 
> In this installment, the Road Wolves have left Baltimore after a brief encounter with a suicidal driver. Then will discover the challenges of driving down old, abandoned highways and just what denizens inhabit these roads.
> 
> (The story was originally written as a gaming adventure scenario, and as such, is sprinkled -- littered, even -- with road encounters. My apologies for some of the painful dialogue -- but we actually spoke like that when we played. As did other groups we duelled with.)

The next couple of hours were uneventful. The entire entourage charged up in Washington. Lucky replaced a couple of wasted rounds. All the vehicles got a fresh set of tires -- off-road tires because of conditions ahead. Within a half hour, our wheels were moving and we were pointing toward Richmond, Va. 

No one complained about the unusual quietness of the road. You would figure that an unpatrolled road like this one would be a haven for bandits, but bandits need victims and there just weren't enough of them around any more to make it worth their while. 

US 1 passes through the hearts of many small towns, but those hearts bled out long ago during the Riots and the bad years following. Artifacts and landmarks of another time dotted the landscape. Almost everything had been picked clean, but careful scrounging could turn something up. 

The weeds had grown unchecked by the sides of the road, many to the size of trees which lifted rubble and debris in their branches. Enough growth popped up between the numerous cracks in the highway that Turbo wished Bumper sported a brushcutter instead of a ramplate. Though we had the foresight to use off-road tires, the disrepair of the road still forced us to slow down considerably, no faster than 40, and sometimes slower. 

Up ahead, a couple of the trees swayed in the breeze. Just a couple, not the rest. Had we been outside our vehicles, we might have noticed that the air was actually quite still. 

Jones got on the radio. "Did anyone else see that? The pair of faces. At least, I think they were faces." 

I craned my neck around, saw nothing. Then some of the brush started moving. Turbo hadn't passed it yet, so it wasn't because of us. Something was in there. 

Thud! 

A tailpipe bounced off Turbo's windshield. Rocks and twisted metal started to rain down on the van. Then they started to emerge, whatever it is they were. Once, they might have been people, but now? Their pale skin was caked with dirt, their clothes tattered revealing starved physiques. They snarled and growled bearing sharpened teeth. Hunger drove them, and I got the impression that they saw a tasty meal, if only they could open the containers. 

The first wave ventured toward the road wielding rocks, metal spears and clubs, one even had an ammo-less rifle. Our turrets swung about as Lucky, Jones and I swept the area with Vulcan fire. Some of them fell over and others fell back, but a second wave emerged. Turbo bumped a few of them over, but there were too many to speed through, not with the decrepit road surface. 

I reached over to the box of grenades I keep handy on the seat next to me, grabbed a pineapple and tossed it into the crowd away from the car. The sudden loud noise scared as many as the shrapnel. Reaching out, I hurled another over the car to the side of the road. Instead of scaring them at the source, the grenade erupted harmlessly with the bushes absorbing the blast. That gave me an idea. 

Keeping my eye on the fight ahead of me, I felt around until I found what I wanted and hurled that into the brush. With a flash of light, the weeds erupted in flames. Tinker and I passed the fire closely, fanning it, spreading it a little. 

The creatures behind us stopped following. The ones in the trees scattered out of them. The attackers in front who didn't give up got caught by the second grenade. Within seconds, the road in front of us was clear, and we jammed on the speed. 

"Lucky," I said. "Remember when we were discussing last month how flamethrowers are too bulky and useless to have on long-range trips? I think I'll change my opinion." 

"You, too, huh?" 

* * * 

Simply put, we blew out of Richmond. We needed to make up the time lost to the cannibals and the time for the extra repairs and reloads. We didn't slow down until we crossed the border into North Carolina and then only out of necessity. We'd lose more time if we ran out of juice short of our next pit stop. 

About 20 miles north of Raleigh, N.C., a lone cyclist pulled up, hanging 50 feet behind Tinker. He stayed there for a minute making no effort to pass or communicate. Tinker finally go on the radio. "Any particular reason you're hanging on my tail?" 

"Nice van you got there," replied the biker. "Must be something pretty important with so many people guarding it." 

Another pause. "Anything we can do for you?" 

"Yup, must be really important stuff in there." 

Tinker looked the cycle over carefully in the mirror. The front armor was fairly bulky with no hint of any gun ports. Only the top of the driver's head could be seen. 

"So which is it going to be?" the cyclist asked. 

"Which which are you talking about?" 

"Oh, horrors! Forgive my manners. I should have noticed from your tags that you're not from around here. My name's Cobra, and this here is Rattler territory. Us Rattlers, we get first choice on all the goods that come through here. You got a choice: give us what we want and you guys keep the rest, or we take it all. What'll it be?" 

Tinker accepted one fact: this guy resembled a slimy reptilian. "Cobra, my name's Mongoose. If you ever plan on laying any eggs, I suggest you crawl on your belly back into your muddy hole." 

"Is that your final word?" 

Tinker growled. And that spoke for all of us. If there was anything worse than a scuzzy, loud-mouthed, unarmed, hustling snake, it's a scuzzy, loud-mouthed, unarmed, hustling snake with "Southern hospitality". 

The lone rider fell back. Behind him two more cycles appeared. Then two more, and further back a couple of more came into view. We had a whole swarm . . . or whatever you call a bunch of snakes. 

Turbo took charge of the situation. "Aramis, drop back and give Tinker a hand." 

I was already on the way, slowing until I was even with Tinker on his right side. We left little room to pass or get a clean shot at the van. They hadn't fired yet, and we figured they were waiting for a good shot at our tires or a way around us. Either way, we wouldn't accommodate them. 

The first to make a run tried to swing about Tinker's left side. With a quick drift, Tinker sent him flying head over handlebars off the side of the road. The second jumped up and took a shot at passing between us through the space Tinker had left. I swerved toward him and Tinker swerved back. The fear in his eyes burned through his faceplate as the side of our cars each touched his handlebars. In the face of his inevitable demise, a sudden surge of "heroism" overcame the biker. He pulled a grenade and waved it so I could see it. I flipped a switch, and he saw the muzzle of my Vulcan swing toward his head. 

We stalemated for a moment. He didn't think I'd try it with the cars so close together. He thought I was bluffing. Jerk, it's the first rule of the road: "Vulcan's never bluff." 

"Aramis, you're cleaning the mess off my car this time! Last time I scrubbed guts off for two hours before I got the shine back!" 

Our cycle buddy took a quick look at Tinker, who returned a deranged, twisted smile. He jumped up, put one hand on top of Tinker's car for support and flung the grenade as far as he could. Very nice. Very stupid, too. I pulled to the right about a foot. His cycle no longer braced, he toppled very nicely, thank you. 

The pack swung around his crashed cycle and started to open fire on our rear. Under cover of fire, Cobra managed to gun past me on the right side. I had been so engrossed torturing the last guy, I hadn't kept my concentration. 

"Get him!" Tinker ordered. "I'll get the rest." 

Dropping a load of spikes, I jammed down on the accelerator. The pack avoided them easily enough, but they were all behind Tinker now. He fired two rounds from his rear-mounted anti-tank gun. We don't know if he actually hit anyone, but the resulting explosions took out all but two of them. Both fell way back. 

In the meantime, General Custer closed in on the van. He had no weapons mounted, so I expected him to pull a grenade to take out the tires. What he pulled instead was bad news; Cobra hoisted a stick of dynamite into the air. He wasn't going for the tires -- he wanted to take out the entire van! 

That did it. No more Mr. Nice Guy. One volley from the Vulcan took Cobra out and the cycle flew off the road. The dynamite, however, fell from his hand onto the highway. I swerved, but there was no way to avoid it. 

The explosion sent me spinning out of control. I grabbed the radio. "Keep going! I'll catch up." 

Tinker sped past me as my car flipped over the shoulder. I timed myself, jumped and tumbled clear of the car. 

I lay there in the grass several feet from the wagon for a couple of minutes. Nothing bruised but my ego. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original story was written in 1984 as a novella and adventure scenario for Car Wars. The story went from NYC to Miami, but then the Miami atlas entry appeared in ADQ, so it was switched to Baltimore to Key West. Scott Haring was impressed by the amount of work but they passed on both, which in retrospect wasn't really surprising.
> 
> The story sat in a drawer until a year after the publication of GURPS Autoduel, 2nd edition. At that point, the original opening, with the explosion that injured Victor Cose, was thrown out, the ending was changed and a good chunk of the middle was rewritten. It was then serialized in HVD: the High-Velocity Duelling Car Wars Mailing List in 1997
> 
> I like the story, but it's still a bit cringe-worthy, reading the remaining 1980s-text, which I chose to preserve, rather than go through another rewrite. For some reason, at the time, I didn't use a lot of contractions, probably because I thought I was adding emphasis.
> 
> Also, if I missed an "Oddball", that's referring to Tinker. The character's name was changed years later, but the original name was used in HVD. In retrospect, I guess he might want a road name, like Sean/Aramis, but would Tinker really give a damn?


	4. Part 4: New Jacksonville or Bust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Driving Tigers leave NYC for Baltimore at the behest of Sean's Uncle Jack to escort an ambulance, containing a critical CEO of Wildcat Auto Works, down U.S. 1 all the way to Key West. The road for this two-day trip is not the safest one to travel. And there's a hurricane brewing off the Florida Coast.
> 
> In this installment, the Road Wolves reunite in Raleigh before setting off again on a route that will take them through Augusta and Waycross. Can they make Jacksonville without incident? Yeah ... don't count on it.
> 
> (The story was originally written as a gaming adventure scenario, and as such, is sprinkled -- littered, even -- with road encounters. My apologies for some of the painful dialogue -- but we actually spoke like that when we played. As did other groups we duelled with.)

The van and its retainers pulled into the Raleigh garage of Wildcat Auto Works one vehicle short: mine. As the gates slid shut behind the convoy, a team of mechanics moved out with fresh tires and ammo clips. 

Turbo hopped out of Bumper and approached a mechanic whose nametag read, believe or not, "Rench". "You can put that set of tires away. I don't think we'll be needing them." Turbo then turned and walked off. "Anyone want a drink from the machine?" 

Startled, Rench went to Lucky. "What's he talking about \-- you lost someone out there? He okay? You want us to send a truck out looking for him?" 

Lucky waved off the questions. "No need. Aramis will be fine. He's great at getting out of tough spots. I should know; I've put him into a few myself." Lucky's smug grin didn't seem to ease Rench's concern. 

"Relax." Lucky reached into the air and snatched a can on collision course with his head. He ripped off the tab and took a swig. "He's lugging around a case of grenades. Don't worry yourself about it." 

The burly man was left dumbfounded by the team's nonchalant attitude concerning a fallen member. He stood speechless as Lucky wandered off. Words fled him even faster when he felt a tap on the shoulder and met Tinker face to face. 

"Open the gate. I got a call on the radio. Our guy's outside." 

Rench recovered and gave the order. The barrier moved aside just as a cycle rode up into the garage with me on it. A cold can flew toward the cycle. I grabbed it before it struck me and waved a thank you to Turbo. 

He waved back. "I figured you'd be here sooner or later. Any problems?" 

"Not really," I replied. "If this bike hadn't had a sidecar, it would've been a different story though. All the other bikes were scattered across the highway beside their owners and their owner's handguns. This one practically rode right up to me." 

I called Rench over. "Send out a tow truck for my car. It's about 20 miles north. This cycle should cover the cost." 

"Right away, sir. You going to wait for it?" 

"No time for that. I'll pick it up on the way back. Thanks." Reaching into the sidecar, I hauled out a knapsack and tossed it to the mechanic. "Put this in the van. Oh, and tell Jones that I'm driving now." 

Rench left with the bag and ordered my tow. I had just sat down to knock back my soda when Tinker shuffled over to me. 

"What's in the bag?" he asked. 

"A bunch of grenades and some Vulcan ammo. Never know when it'll come it handy. Besides, the stuff's expensive." 

"You probably won't need it. You got to figure the Vulcan's been stripped off by now." 

I took another sip. "Not likely. The car's sitting on it. The wheels are probably gone though." I called over to Rench, "Make sure you send a flatbed." 

We finished our drinks, and the mechanics their repairs. Time to set off again. Tinker asked me if I could handle it. 

"No sweat. Just stay close behind me." 

Tinker growled. "Great thinking! Behind you. That's a good place to put the rear guard." 

"You know what I mean. Just let me drive the van, and we'll have nothing to worry about." 

"Your driving _is_ what I'm worried about." 

It was my turn to growl. "Cut it out. I'll handle her fine." 

Jones cut in. "Actually, she handles like a brick." 

Tinker and I growled in unison. 

* * * 

The next few hours passed quietly, if you consider rumbling over worn terrain at high speeds quiet. Boredom brought me close to taking potshots at squirrels. But I realized that wild creatures were a _good_ sign. It meant that there weren't any more hunger-starved crazies nearby. 

The only excitement on the Augusta leg of the trip came when we approached a northbound convoy. It took a couple of minutes to assure the fellas in the big rigs that we weren't bandits looking for trouble. Running my courier routes, I've picked up a few tips from various truckers at some of the stops I've made. That paid off now while we were facing an array of autocannons and twenty-ton ramplates. 

The Augusta stop lasted long enough to get a bite to eat. We checked the data from the cubes that Uncle Jack provided and decided to press on into New Jacksonville. That's where we planned to crash for the night, talking figuratively, of course. The roads were good and our armor was holding up well enough. All these quick patches were fine for short hops, but the grease monkeys in New Jacksonville would be up all night laying it in thick. 

With a little luck, we could cover the remaining 250 miles by just after dark. Before dark would've been better, but we'd have had to really push it. That wouldn't be prudent, so we'd just deal with night driving on unfamiliar roads. What could happen, huh? 

Well, for one thing . . . 

WAW didn't have any company-owned garages in Waycross, Georgia. But there was no way we'd make it another 70 miles without stopping. According to the maps we had, this was our best bet. We had no idea was to expect while making a random pit stop. We hit a charging station with an adjacent diner. 

Everyone inside was in high spirits. They were celebrating something. One guy, Max, told Lucky that they usually find any excuse to party, but tonight something special was going down. Only problem was that no one knew exactly what it was. We turned down the invite to the party. Too much to do and darkness was setting it already. 

New Jacksonville was less than 70 miles away. So far, our trip had taken us more than 12 hours. It'd be more than an another hour before we could turn in for the night. Our tires were feeling some of the wear as were the rest of us. Tinker and Lucky had each lost small pieces of armor. I'd have been happy to just see the Florida border without another incident. 

No such luck. A radar blip slowly advanced on us. A minute later, another edged onto the screen behind the first. Both were gaining on us, but we played cool. We had to think about Mr. Cose's welfare. Soon, two pair of headlights became visible, and each vehicle sported a flashing light -- along with a heavy smattering of offensive hardware. 

Great, I thought. We're heading to Key West, our lives threatened at every turn, bandits lying in wait everywhere. So what happens? We get ticketed for speeding in Georgia. No way I'm showing up for a court appearance. 

We pulled over immediately -- why look for trouble? No reason to slug it out with the cops. One of the men from the lead vehicle got out and approached Turbo cautiously. 

"We weren't speeding, were we?" Turbo knew full well that we were doing about 75. He talked with the officer for a few minutes and then exited Bumper. He walked around the back and showed the man his empty cargo holds. Ram cars usually have a good deal of empty, useless space. When they finished, they walked up to Lucky's clunker; Lucky didn't have a single cubic foot of wasted space to squeeze in any cargo. Then the three of them came toward the van. Lucky walked behind, puzzled and scratching his head. 

I rolled down the window, and Turbo stuck his head inside the van. "Sean," he said. He knew it bothered me when he didn't use my street name when we're in the street. "These gentlemen are checking for contraband being smuggled across the Florida border. They have to inspect the van for illicit cargo. You haven't been stashing any tobacco products back there, have you?" 

Lucky grabbed Turbo by the arm and yanked his head out the window. "Is that what this is about? Why didn't you just show him the guy on the stretcher so they'd let us pass?" 

"You kidding? I wouldn't miss this for the world!" Turbo positively grinned from ear to ear. He shouted to the back of the van, "You can open her up, officer!" 

The state trooper sprung the door and gasped in shock. He stared at Victor Cose and his attached monitors then looked to Jones and Carmichael, each displaying grim faces. He then gazed at me up front. I managed to keep a straight face even as Turbo cracked up in my ear. 

Turbo composed himself and approached the officer. "You see, sir, we are in charge of getting this man -- who you can see is in critical condition -- to a specialized hospital not far away in Florida. Even now as we speak, his lifeforce slowly ebbs away." 

The trooper was flustered. "Why didn't you say something ten minutes ago?!" 

"Never let it be said that the Road Wolves would be so inconsiderate as to obstruct police procedures." 

"Where are you going?" he demanded. 

"We're meeting a relay team in New Jacksonville." 

"Get in your vehicles. You're getting an escort to the Florida border." 

"Yes, sir." Turbo turned with a wink to Lucky and me. Leave it to Turbo to get our team an extra layer of protection. For free, no less! 

Once across the border, after the patrol cars had fallen back, I got on the radio. "You took a bit of a chance there, didn't you, Turbo?" 

He chortled. "I figured as long as none of us had any smuggling compartments, they wouldn't give us any trouble." He laughed again, proud of his own work. 

"Turb," I replied slowly. "You realize then that it's a good thing that I lost the wagon up in Raleigh. The one I sometimes transport sensitive materials in." 

His laughing stopped cold. Radio silence. A minute later, Tinker cut in. "You all realize that it's a better thing that they saw our patient before they got around to checking out _my_ car. Or would anyone want to explain it." 

A cold shudder. Chills on the spine. Stiff hairs threatened to break the neck ring on my body armor. I straightened up in my seat and kept my eyes forward. I didn't want to think about Tinker's car. As a part-time gadgeteer and part-time mad scientist, he might have brought anything along for the ride. 

How mad is he? Let's just say that when he sent some designs to Victor Cose for his opinion, my godfather had a special R&D lab set up for Tinker. In an isolated section of Brooklyn. Where no one would get hurt. 

I'd assumed that the harm befalling his benefactor was why Tinker had come along for the ride. I hadn't thought that there might have been any other reason. The words "Road Test" now flashed across my mind. 

But that was behind us, for now. Thanks to the Georgia State Police, we were in New Jacksonville in 20 minutes. Not a moment too soon for me. We saw Victor Cose and his equipment into a special area set up for him. Then we found our bunks. The mattresses were hard, lumpy, and somewhat worn. I was asleep before I hit the pillow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original story was written in 1984 as a novella and adventure scenario for Car Wars. The story went from NYC to Miami, but then the Miami atlas entry appeared in ADQ, so it was switched to Baltimore to Key West. Scott Haring was impressed by the amount of work but they passed on both, which in retrospect wasn't really surprising.
> 
> The story sat in a drawer until a year after the publication of GURPS Autoduel, 2nd edition. At that point, the original opening, with the explosion that injured Victor Cose, was thrown out, the ending was changed and a good chunk of the middle was rewritten. It was then serialized in HVD: the High-Velocity Duelling Car Wars Mailing List in 1997
> 
> I like the story, but it's still a bit cringe-worthy, reading the remaining 1980s-text, which I chose to preserve, rather than go through another rewrite. For some reason, at the time, I didn't use a lot of contractions, probably because I thought I was adding emphasis.
> 
> Also, if I missed an "Oddball", that's referring to Tinker. The character's name was changed years later, but the original name was used in HVD.

**Author's Note:**

> The original story was written in 1984 as a novella and adventure scenario for Car Wars. The story went from NYC to Miami, but then the Miami atlas entry appeared in ADQ, so it was switched to Baltimore to Key West. Scott Haring was impressed by the amount of work but they passed on both, which in retrospect wasn't really surprising. 
> 
> The story sat in a drawer until a year after the publication of GURPS Autoduel, 2nd edition. At that point, the original opening, with the explosion that injured Victor Cose, was thrown out, the ending was changed and a good chunk of the middle was rewritten. It was then serialized in HVD: the High-Velocity Duelling Car Wars Mailing List in 1997
> 
> I like the story, but it's still a bit cringe-worthy, reading the remaining 1980s-text, which I chose to preserve, rather than go through another rewrite. For some reason, at the time, I didn't use a lot of contractions, probably because I thought I was adding emphasis.
> 
> Also, if I missed an "Oddball", that's referring to Tinker. The character's name was changed years later, but the original name was used in HVD.


End file.
